Didn't
by HermioneGirl96
Summary: Before Sherlock died, John didn't need his cane, as he explains to the Sherlock whom he thinks is just a figment of his imagination. That is, until Mrs. Hudson confirms that Sherlock is really there. A one-shot. Frustratingly close to slash, but not quite, kind of like the show. Hopefully in-character.


**Disclaimer: "Sherlock" is fanfiction of the Conan Doyle. This is fanfiction of "Sherlock." It's Moffat's or Conan Doyle's or whoever's, but it's certainly not mine.**

**A/N: Frustratingly close to slash, but not slash. Just warning you.**

"It's a psychosomatic limp. You don't need your cane."

"_Didn't_," John corrected, sighing and throwing a glare at Sherlock, who was sitting on the stairs that John was struggling to climb. "I _didn't_ need my cane. We've been over this. Knowing _you_ fixed my limp. _You_ healed me. Since you died . . . I've come rather undone."

Sherlock followed John into 221B Baker Street and took his habitual place on the couch. "John . . ."

"Sherlock." John had his back to his flat mate and was filling a kettle with water.

"I don't mean to alarm you—"

"How can you alarm me? You're a figment of my grief-ridden imagination."

Sherlock stood. "Well, you see. That's just it." He walked over to where John was making tea and laid a hand on John's arm. "I understand that you're accustomed to speaking to a version of me that is purely in your head, but now I've returned."

John's face was expressionless as he turned, abandoning the tea on the stovetop. He simply marched out of the flat and down the stairs into Mrs. Hudson's. Sherlock followed. "Mrs. Hudson!" John called.

"What is it, dear?" came Mrs. Hudson's voice from her sewing room.

"The usual!"

"John . . ."

"But it's different this time!"

"You always say that." Mrs. Hudson ventured out of her sewing room and into the kitchen, where John and Sherlock were standing. The size of Mrs. Hudson's eyes doubled. "My God! Sherlock!" She rushed to him and enveloped him in a hug that was disproportionately large for a woman so small.

John gaped. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, which had closed peacefully when Mrs. Hudson had hugged him, and looked at John. "Yes?"

"You're back."

"I told you."

"You _told_ me you were going to kill yourself."

"I wear many hats, and one of them is that of a performer. You know this." Only then did Sherlock step out of Mrs. Hudson's embrace.

John was upon him immediately, fists flying, and he was too broad and too strong for Sherlock to really impede. "Why—did—you—jump—off—that—_bloody_—building—and—leave—me—_without_—you—thinking—you—were—_dead_?"

"There were snipers with their sights set on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. My death was the only way to call them off." John was still swinging—avoiding the nose and teeth—though Sherlock talked as if he weren't.

"Six—_months_—Sherlock!"

"Possibly excessive, I am aware. I only wanted to keep you safe." Sherlock frowned. "Speaking of excessive, you could stop punching me now."

"Six _months_!" John's hands fell uselessly to his sides.

"It's not as if I didn't miss you, too," Sherlock groused.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure it was horrible, having to buy your own milk and make your own tea and fetch your own phone! I can't imagine the inconvenience—"

Sherlock grasped John's shoulders. "I told you once that I would be lost without you. I meant it."

John blinked suddenly, and a tear slid down his cheek. Without a word, he stepped forward, closing the small distance between himself and Sherlock, and leaned against the taller man. Sherlock stood for a moment, statuesque, before putting his arms stiffly around John's back.

"Come on, John, let's go home." Sherlock removed one arm from around John and used the other to guide him out of Mrs. Hudson's flat and back up the stairs to 221B. Once in the flat, Sherlock deposited the weeping John on the sofa and made his way to the stove. He finished preparing the tea, poured two cups—one with sugar, for himself, and one without, for John—and joined John on the sofa. For a while, the two just sat, knees and shoulders touching, and drank their tea.

Finally, John wiped his face on the back of his hand and broke the silence. "Thank you."

Sherlock's dark curls shifted as he whipped his head around to look at John. "For what?"

"The tea. First off. Coming back. Being alive. Being who I thought you were. Who I knew you were."

Now it was Sherlock's eyes that filled. "It is _I _who should be thanking you." His hand shook slightly as he raised his teacup to his mouth and set it down again. "For taking me back." He took another drink of tea, and the tremor was worse this time. "I had to leave. To keep you out of danger from Moriarty's snipers. But I could have come back sooner. I was just—I'd never feared anything . . . anything like I feared your wrath. For playing the fraud, for that phone call, for not telling you my plan, for letting you think I was dead . . ." The tears dropped, and Sherlock allowed one harsh sob to escape him before shaking his head and drying his face with his hand. He swallowed and attempted a laugh. "I thought you'd hate me."

John grinned despite a resumed onslaught of tears. "I hated you much more while living with you than I did when you were gone." He lifted an arm hesitantly and then settled it across Sherlock's shoulders. "Why did you come back?"

Sherlock looked at his lap. "Mycroft . . . was a bit forceful."

John's whole body stiffened. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I lived with him."

"You lived with Mycroft for _six months_ and neither of you told me you were alive?"

"He was furious, but I . . . I couldn't face you. Not after that phone call. Not after letting you see me broken on the pavement."

"I talked to him! Repeatedly! We both _spoke_ at your _funeral_!"

"I know." Sherlock's posture collapsed; his voice was quiet.

"And, the whole time, he _lied _to me—"

"Don't take it personally. Mycroft lies for a living. You're one of a plethora of audiences."

"I _needed_ you and you were with _him_ and he didn't _tell_ me and you didn't _come_—"

"He told me to come back, every time he saw you. I was weak. I was stupid. Finally he threatened . . . I decided to risk your wrath."

"Threatened what?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked into John's. "Threatened to arrange our reunion. And watch the whole thing."

"What's to say he or Anthea hasn't planted cameras all over the flat?"

"Anything but his ridiculous portly presence and snide remarks."

John smiled, tears abating, and wiped his face again. Then he looked at Sherlock properly for the first time in a while and promptly stood, marched into the kitchen, pulled a kit out of a cupboard, and returned to the sofa.

Sherlock narrowed his blue eyes. "First aid? What, do you think I'll break just now that I've returned?"

"I _think_ I broke you a bit already. My greeting was a bit not good for your face."

Sherlock put a hand to his cheek and pulled away fingers sticky with blood. "I see."

John opened the first aid kit and got to work.

**A/N: Please review! I'd especially like to know if you think I'm keeping the characters in character. Also, favorites are lovely. I'd love to be your favorite.**


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